


The One with the Rope

by EskelChopChop



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Bondage, Choking, D/s, Dominance, F/M, Face-Sitting, Femdom, Malesub, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Punishment, Sensory Deprivation, Smut, Submission, Suspension, Whipping, mindreading as a sex toy, romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:21:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22449358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EskelChopChop/pseuds/EskelChopChop
Summary: “Haven't seen each other in two years. I want a solitary cottage by the sea. I wanna lock myself inside with you, stay there for a week.”“What would we do there for a week?”“Got so many ideas…”“The one with the rope you use for trophies, that one seems interesting.”--The rope is weathered, frayed in places from too many nights on the saddle. Yennefer runs it through her gloved hands. It will undoubtedly leave marks.Perfect.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 18
Kudos: 161





	The One with the Rope

**Author's Note:**

> I have a vague thought that this takes place after the quest "The Last Wish" in TW3. Yen & Geralt take off to that quiet solitary cottage in Skellige for a little while before heading to Novigrad. But it never actually comes up in the story, so-- whatevs!
> 
> This is my first explicit fic, so if you feel inclined to throw me a kudos, comment, etc., it's doubly appreciated. :D
> 
> Enjoy!

The rope is weathered, fraying in places from too many nights on the saddle. Yennefer runs it through her gloved hands. It will undoubtedly leave marks.

Perfect.

She takes her time crossing the room so the witcher kneeling on the opposite side can feel her every footfall thud against the floorboards. The air tenses so deliciously that his every thought plucks a tightened chord between them. She feels him hearing her footsteps, sees what he pictures: the weight of her bootheels, the long stride of her legs, a gaze that’s imperious and thrilling.

“Witcher! What a poetic imagination you have. You do me such honor.”

“Just givin’ you your due.”

“Mhm. On your knees… where you belong.”

Oh, but Geralt kneels so beautifully, so obediently. He’s kept his wrists crossed behind his back. The black blindfold looks delightful wrapped tightly around his head, but she knows it makes little difference. His witcher hearing tracks her heartbeat, her footsteps. He hardly needs to see.

Yen lowers her hand to cup his cheek. He’s naked, lean muscles and scars displayed in all their glory, and his cock twitches at her touch. His tilts his head against her palm.

“My strong, capable witcher.” She drops her voice into the low, ominous purr that he likes to dream about. “No matter how I bind your eyes, you would find me. Wouldn’t you?”

“Anywhere.” 

“I know you would. My indomitable witcher. My White Wolf.” The slide of the rope against his bare shoulders makes him jerk. She drapes a length of it over the back of his neck, pulls it around his throat, tightens the rope in her fist to close it like a collar or a trap. 

Geralt lurches. Images sprout in his thoughts: he wants her to kiss him while she chokes him, wants her to yank him up off his feet and pull him across the room using the rope like a leash, wants her to push his mouth into the wetness of her that, yes, he already smells.

Yen smiles. She could bathe in his desire, submerge in it and never find its bottom.

“Be still.”

Geralt grits his teeth but forces himself to remain kneeling, wrists crossed behind him. 

“Geralt of Rivia. Famed monster slayer and witcher. Kneeling at my feet.” Yen pulls his improvised rope collar to the side, exposing his neck. She leans over him so that her hair drapes over his bare skin and her breath whispers into his ear. “The rest of the Continent may look at you and see a mighty warrior, a fearless slayer of giants and foul beasts. But I know what you really are, what you long to be in your heart…” Yen chokes off his breath. “...White Wolf.”

He grunts. His shoulders tense. 

She pulls the rope so it cuts into his neck, though she’s careful to avoid the delicate areas where any small amount of pressure might damage his windpipe. “You long to be mine, completely mine, body and soul. My tamed pet. My property.”

Geralt’s pale face flushes the slightest shade of red. “Yes. Fuck. Yes. Yen-- please!”

His cry of _please_ is enticing enough that Yen slackens her grip on the rope. It sags to his shoulders and Geralt heaves a ragged breath. 

“Then tonight, I will take what I want from you,” Yen murmurs. “And you will submit, my beautiful, faithful Wolf. If you are overwhelmed, you will say ‘Aard’ or use the sign as your signal. Is that clear?”

Geralt, still gasping, nods his bowed head.

“Good.” Yen sinks down, fitting her knees between his. He shuffles, trying to press as much of his naked thigh as he can to hers. “I like you like this, Geralt. Attentive, devoted. And vulnerable-- but it is no easy task to make a witcher vulnerable, is it? Your arms…” She runs her hands up his biceps, squeezing to feel their solidity. “...unbound. Your senses, sharp as a wild thing’s, even blindfolded. I want you naked in your vulnerability, Geralt. To hold nothing back when you give yourself to me.” Her hand smooths over his hair. “I am going to take your sight and your hearing with magic. The only thing you will hear is my voice, via telepathy. Do you understand?”

Geralt’s chest lifts and falls with his breath. “Yeah.” His voice has that brave edge she has come to recognize over decades. Once, he used it when he could not say that he loved her. Now, she knows its real meaning: he is afraid that he is about to be exposed. Unprotected.

“Brave Wolf, going willingly to the trap. Hold still.”

Yen chants the words of the spell. When it’s finished, she reaches around his head and unties the blindfold. Geralt’s eyes have gone cloudy, a pale glaucoma shrouding the viper yellow. His eyes widen, dart left and right. She knows he sees nothing but darkness.

 _Are you alright?_ she projects.

 _Yeah._ The tendons are taut in his shoulders. He’s keyed up but already his thoughts have begun to fade into that wordless space where her control floods him. It is beautiful to see him here, laying all of his weapons down. Given over to another. 

Yen crouches behind him and winds the rope around his wrists. Geralt is unresisting. This carved, scarred body, honed and leaned by the Path-- offered to her. It makes her ache as she binds his wrists together, tight enough to hold, forgiving enough that there’s little risk of blocking circulation in his hands. Just to make sure, she entwines her fingers in his and squeezes until he squeezes back. 

“There,” she murmurs, stepping back to admire a sight that would warm an untold number of women and not an insignificant number of men on a cold Skelligan night: Geralt kneeling, bound, blind, deaf. Helpless as a witcher is taught never to be. 

Yennefer walks slowly around him. He can’t hear her footsteps. When she stops in front of him, she takes a small step closer. She knows the moment that her body heat registers to his senses: Geralt’s shoulders jerk. 

_Terrible to be so blind, so helpless. I can do anything to you, can’t I? And you can do nothing to stop me._

_Don’t wanna stop you._ He thinks it breathlessly, a fascinating phenomenon.

_Oh?_

With a murmur, Yen summons a living spiral of silver light. A far more potent version of this spell was once used by sorcerers in the service of kings, when normal means of interrogation failed. By comparison, this little slip of illumination is perfectly harmless. It can feel anything but-- as Geralt already knows.

The living whip of light slips through the air and hovers behind Geralt’s back. 

_Let us see how good you’ve been. Show me who you’ve been with since you’ve regained your memory._

At first, a hesitant blankness. Then, the image coalesces in Geralt’s mind and her own: an elf woman, slender, lively, tight and practiced. 

_A professional?_

He shows her the madame of the Passiflora. She’s mastered a smile that’s just warm enough as she pockets her client’s coin. 

_That hardly counts. Three strokes as a token._

The glowing whip strikes Geralt across his bare shoulders once, twice, three times. He hisses through his teeth but doesn’t move. 

_Continue, Geralt. Show me the others. I know there are others._

Dark skin, white paint framing her eyes, auburn hair glowing in forest light. Two horns curve proudly from her head.

_A succubus? My, don’t we have an appetite. Six strokes._

The whip lashes him three more times across his back. Geralt arches forward to retreat from the sting. It streaks around his shoulders to strike him across the chest once, stomach twice. Angry red lines rise on Geralt’s pale skin. He’s breathing harder.

_Anyone else?_

_Yeah. One more._

_I’m waiting._

_Just… don’t get mad._

_Oh, Geralt, what now?_

She can sense his hesitation as the image slowly forms in their minds: a blue dress, blond hair, a familiar condescending smirk…

“Keira?” Yennefer all but yells. “You fucked Keira Metz, you ridiculous man? Have you no self-respect?” 

_Are you getting mad?_

Yen remembers that he can’t hear her. She takes a moment to compose herself. 

_I’m not angry. I’m merely surprised by your sudden and inexplicable lapse in taste._

_No need to be mean,Yen. She…_

His thoughts fizzle into pain when the whip hits him across his exposed nipples. 

_Spare me. Tsk, you were doing so well. And here I thought I wouldn’t need to punish you at all. I believe this merits twenty strokes._

He flinches but remains silent.

_Count for me, Geralt._

_One…_

The whip flashes across the inside of his thigh. A welt rises instantly, glistening red. 

_Two…_

Geralt hisses but stays kneeling and keeps the count, even as the whip slashes across his arms, his back, his legs and stomach and nipples. He starts trembling after the eleventh stroke. Yen hits him harder, watches him gasp and bend forward at the waist. But he’s still kneeling through the eighteenth stroke across the small of his back, the nineteenth stroke against his ribs, and after the twentieth stroke lands hard across his shoulders, she drops to the floor and catches him. 

_My beautiful Wolf, my brave witcher. What a gift you’ve given me. You were so strong for me, weren’t you? You wanted to make me proud. And I am proud of you. So proud._ Yennefer holds him against her. His breath trembles as if he’s coming undone at his center and his body will slowly shiver into pieces in her arms. She holds him together with her projected thoughts and the soft strokes of her hand on his hair.

His breathing slows. He’s a bound animal in her arms, leaning into his captor and accepting that his fate is out of his own hands. She peers into his mind and finds a warming, opening expanse, a readiness for her to fill.

Oh, yes. She will. 

_Come._

Yen reaches under Geralt’s arm, pulls him so that he knows to stand. He totters. The witcher has never been so disarmed. She guides him across the room and pushes him so he sits down on the edge of the bed. 

_Stay._

She takes her clothes off unceremoniously. He isn’t watching, after all.

So when she presses her suddenly naked flesh against his, he sucks in breath. She runs her fingers up the nape of his neck and pulls his head toward her breast. He obeys without needing a command, opening his mouth and caressing her nipple with tongue and lips in a light, sensuous flutter that sends an electric current running from her cunt to her toes. She reaches down between his legs, finds the hot length of his cock already upright and searching for her. He groans into her breast. 

Yen curves her fingers so her nails scrape over his scalp, through his hair. _Do you know what I want from you?_

Geralt’s head comes up, as if he could see her. His glaucoma eyes are half-shut. _Whatever you want, I’ll give you for days. Wanna make you scream ‘til half of Kaer Trolde yells for us to shut up. Like on Thanedd. Remember?_

 _Yes. You have always wanted to serve my desires, haven’t you. Before we knew how deeply, you have always submitted to me._ Her hands drift to his chest, over the old scars and new welts, and gently pushes him backwards. He falls on his back into the bed. _Now scooch back. Mind your hands._

He wiggles his weight awkwardly until he’s lying fully on the bed. Yen straddles his body, holding herself above him with her arms. His chest is so open, so undefended with his arms bound behind his back. She lowers her head, lets her hair pool across his skin, flicks her tongue over his nipples. His stomach tightens. The whip’s left his skin sensitive. She uses just her lips on the other nipple, soft and tantalizing, until he rolls his hips and throws his head back on the sheets. 

_No. Not yet._

Geralt groans.

Yen crawls over him until she’s hovering above his face. _So eager to give. Do you wish to be of service?_

_Yes. Please._

_Be of use, Wolf._ Yen lowers her cunt to his mouth. _Show me how much you want to please me._

His lips open and close around her clit. The shock of pleasure nearly topples her and she leans forward, bracing against the mattress. More. She needs more. His tongue and lips envelop her and her gasps seem to radiate from between her legs and spread heat through her body, in convulsive ripples that make her thighs quiver. A concentrated heatwave of pleasure builds inside her, she can feel it warping through her like the energy waves that run through portals except his mouth is the pathway to something so exquisite, it’s uncontainable. He’s lathering her cunt in it, this overwhelming blissful heat, and her hips are shaking and her breath is wavering and his thoughts are one word beating rhythmically-- _Yen, Yen, Yennefer!_ \-- and she crests upward to the heartbeat of her own name until it overtakes her and flares through her body in sweet release.

Yen curls over him, her hands in his hair, her thighs straddling his head and her cunt in his mouth. He’s still moving his lips, very lightly, like delicate kisses. His thoughts flow freely into her and she tastes her own sex in his mouth, his sense of gratification and joy. 

_How well you serve. How obediently and beautifully._

Yen rolls over, stretches her legs so she can lie with her arm and leg draped over him. Geralt wants to hold her, too. He can only lie with his bound arms pressed between the bed and the small of his back. She wants that, too: for him to desire but not have, to withhold for her. 

They breathe together. She watches his blind viper eyes staring at nothing, the whittled, dangerous body lying subjugated at her side. 

_Look at you. You’re almost a tamed witcher._

_Almost? Feeling pretty damned domesticated now._

Yen lifts herself on her elbows and leans forward to kiss him. His lips are soft and wet, his mouth and beard smelling and tasting of her. When she pulls away, he curls his shoulders to lift them just above the bed, strains his neck to lift his head, trying to follow her. He can’t hear her getting off the bed. 

_Do you know what I want from you?_ she asks again.

Geralt’s nostrils flare. He’s trying to smell her out now. Undoubtedly much easier now that she’s wet and dripping. The blind, scarred face turns toward her.

_A second round?_

Yen chuckles aloud. _That too. But something more important, Geralt._

She lifts a hand. He levitates off the bed and glides toward her through the air, cradled by an invisible magic current. Geralt looks more relaxed than she’d guessed. The magic’s touch is soft, gentle; without sight, he can’t see how strange this looks. How utterly helpless he is, carried by nothing but her magic and her will. 

_I want all of you, Geralt. Every inch, every thought. I want every fiber of your being to know it belongs to me._

Yen lifts a leg over Geralt’s suspended body, straddling his thighs. The spell obediently shifts to lift its mistress as well and they are both floating three feet above the floor. Geralt stretches his bound hands beneath him, finding nothing but air. 

_It does_ , Geralt thinks. _Thought of you every night. Always wanna be with you..._

Yen braces herself against his shoulders, letting her nails dig half-moon impressions into his skin. She undulates her hips forward, lifting herself up to brush the dark trimmed hair of her mound over the head of his cock. He’s straining to raise his hips, bracing against nothing but air. 

_Do you want something, Wolf?_

_Yes…_ His hips buck.

_What might that be?_

He shows her a picture instead: her own head thrown back, hair streaming behind her, mouth open and ecstatic as she rides him. 

_You’ve been such an obedient slave, haven’t you. So ready to make yourself mine. I will give you a reward for serving so beautifully. The gift of making me come. You will fill me, enter me, show me just how much pleasure you want to give. Would you like that?_

_Yes._

Yen brushes her hands down his chest. One wraps around his shaft, the other curls against her clit. They both take in sharp breaths. _Is that all?_

_Yes. Yes. Yes, please, yes, Yen, please let me…_

_Tell me who you belong to, sweet property of mine._

_To you, Yen, I belong to you._

_Say it aloud, Wolf._

“I’m yours, Yen.” His voice is a growl through gritted teeth. His cock pulses in her grip, each vein filled. It looks almost pained. “I belong to you.”

She grips his cock at the base of his shaft, glides it against the lip of her cunt where her body turns inward and becomes soft, wet, and sweet. 

_Mine._

Yen slides down. She’s already wet and open, he’s erect and straining, and they both gasp as their bodies meet in a hot enveloping pleasure. He’s rock-hard and throbbing inside her, she’s soaking and tightly enveloping him. 

“Gods,” Geralt spits through his teeth. 

_Show me how you think of me._ Yen lifts herself, gliding up the length of his cock. Gods! Heat and pleasure throb at her core. _Show me what you imagine on the Path._

He tenses his hips, pushes up into her, and shows her a moonlit patch of grass where Roach stands flicking her tail and he is lying with his hands behind his head on his bedroll, staring at the stars and imagining the glimmer of moonlight on an obsidian star--

_Show me what you wish you could do--_

He’s rolling in the air, almost bucking her off, trying to get his arms free to hold onto her and pull her deeper onto his cock, and on the Path he’s sitting upright next to a fire with the smell of lilac and gooseberries in his memory and lifting her onto a desk, a table, he doesn’t ploughing know what, as long as the furniture’s solid and he can plunge into her--

_Yes. Yes._

Yen drives her hips up and down his shaft, harder now, deeper so he’s forced into the crevices inside her that awaken with pleasure and a grunt rumbles deep in his chest. She’s panting with need, with possession, with the sight of his bound naked body trapped mid-air and knowing it’s all for her, every thrust he makes without any leverage to make it, every labored breath, all of the yearning that’s blazing through him now to give her what she wants--

_Remember this moment. Remember yourself trapped and helpless and complete at last because you are where you need to be, serving me, filling me--_

_Yen, Yen, Yennefer, Yen…_

Yen tears the sensory spells away. Instantly Geralt’s eyes flash yellow again. The viper pupils constrict and focus on her. 

“Everything you are, Geralt--” She gasps the words into his eyes. “Give it to me. Hold nothing back, I want everything!”

Geralt’s eyes are trapped in hers, he’s thrusting, gasping, unable to look away, giving all he has and all he is, her witcher, her Wolf, her own--

The universe shudders and Yen’s orgasm erupts from her as if it might topple Kaer Trolde. She collapses forward and Geralt can’t hold her so she wraps her arms around him and pulls their bodies together to give him leverage. He thrusts up into her, grunting with the effort when all he can move is his hips but only needing that, the raw need overcoming strain. Yen finds one of the welts on his back and grazes his neck with her teeth. His groan comes from a place deep inside him that her teeth and cunt and rope have cracked open, brought to air, and he’s looking at her and pumping faster and faster until he stiffens inside her and shudders and there's a flood of liquid heat. 

They gasp together. Some part of her wonders how the world has not ended, how they have not torn it apart.

They struggle to find themselves in the world again. Yen lets them float to the bed. They flatten down onto the mattress and she rolls Geralt onto his stomach, picking at the rope until he’s able to pull himself free. Each individual braid in the rope has carved a red mark into the skin of his wrists and forearms. He stretches his arms and murmurs wordlessly as he’s able to wrap them around her at last. 

“Geralt. My beautiful one.” The gentlest kiss on his forehead. “You are the greatest pride to me. Do you know that?”

He smiles. She can feel the words struggling to come back to him. 

“How are your hands? Your marks?”

“‘S’okay,” he mumbles into her hair. “‘S’great.”

She runs her thumb around his hairline, where the white hair meets his forehead. “You were so good, taking the whip. We’ve not reached twenty strokes before.”

“It wasn’t the dwarf metal thing?”

“No. That was the, ahem, reclaimed artifact.”

“Oh yeah. Yeah, that was…” His eyes change. There’s a hint of who he is when his mind drops deep into that other place-- the part of Geralt that is never fully awake unless he's offered himself in submission. She waits. “...perfect,” he says at last.

Yen smiles and presses a kiss into his forehead. “You were.”

Geralt isn’t sure if he should look away or look at her. She places two fingers gently on his chin and turns his face toward hers. 

“Thank you for giving yourself to me,” she says.

Geralt took years to learn how to say ‘I love you.’ He’s fighting just to keep his eyes locked with hers and give her that much. It is one thing to fall in love. But to be possessed, owned, to lay down his defenses when his life depends on his swords… she can see him battling with himself, the part of him that must fight and the part that must surrender. 

“I know it is difficult for you,” Yen says, “I know. That is why I treasure it so deeply.” She presses a fond hand to his face and rolls onto her back.

She doesn’t expect him-- should she have expected him?-- to raise himself off the bed, lift himself over her, and plant kisses along her chest and breasts. Gentle, worshipful kisses, like prayers.

She hears him, then, as if he were shouting it: _Yours_. Every repetition of the word accompanied by another silent kiss on her body. 

_My witcher_ , Yen says. _My Wolf_. She cups his face in her hands and brings his lips to hers, as if to taste the unsaid words in his mouth.


End file.
